


playing house

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Time, Fluff, Home Ownership, M/M, not actually a fake-married fic, pure and unadulterated fluff, so adjacent that you really have to squint, this is also kind of a love song about washington dc, trash party adjacent, unrealistic home repairs but realistic home repair expectations and frustrations, wow that is not how you finish floors all partially like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock buys a fixer-upper. Jack gets to be the much needed moral support for the whole fixing-up process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	playing house

" ** _Bring beer_** ," was all Brock's text had said. 

" ** _Make it strong._** " A second, a few minutes after the first.

When Jack steps into Brock's condo, the panic underlying those words becomes immediately clear. 

" _Sedona Red,_ " Brock murmurs. He's standing in the doorway still, staring off into space -- probably hasn't moved since he'd gotten home. He does that sometimes, gets immobilized by his own emotions: frozen like a statue before he's really done processing. A quick glance down shows Jack that Brock's go-bag is still at his feet, sitting haphazardly in the little marble entryway to Brock's living space, leaning against Brock's boot. Rumlow's fuming, but in his own self-implosion sort of way -- a sedentary ball of rage, churning in on himself because he doesn't know what else to let it out on. It's only a matter of time before it happens and he lashes out, or before Brock's anger fizzles out like a cheap flare.

Jack gives the near-empty condo a once over, though it doesn't even need it. The problem'd been glaring the second Rollins had walked in: eye-searing. "Did your contractors practice ritual sacrifice in here? Because it looks like --"

Brock cuts him off before he can finish. His timing is way off -- if Brock were on point, Jack wouldn't've even gotten three words out. But he's not. He's frazzled and frustrated and bursting at the seams. "I know." There's anger laced all through his tone, as well as desperation, annoyance -- and more than an ounce of defeat. "I know what it looks like." 

Jack lets out a low whistle through his teeth, surveying the damage. "Blood," he helpfully offers up. It  _does_  look like blood, though -- dark and splotchy and altogether uneven. Not at all like a professional attempted to sand and stain the hardwood floors of Brock's fixer-upper.  _Classy_ , Brock had said in passing,  _It's going to look classy_. Sure, Jack had kind of doubted that all along, with Brock's love for hard edges and the over-masculine, but even he hadn't anticipated a train-wreck quite this spectacular.

"If you had just let me do it --" Jack cuts himself off, knowing it's pointless. Brock had wanted it done  _now, Jack, not whenever you feel like getting to it_. And for once, that was moderately fair. After all, Brock had holed himself away in his guest room while this was all being done, along with all of his furniture and most of his stuff. And Jack had been in the middle of a project on his bike, not all that willing to drop it immediately just because Brock said  _go_.

His hand is suddenly free of a locally brewed six-pack, and before he knows it, Brock's already got one beer popped open. He's drinking it like he's parched, not even tasting, like he's letting his anger seep into his stomach and his veins. It's probably a whole hell of a lot healthier than him taking it out on the nearest contractor -- or wall. Or the floor.

Not that there's much more that could be done to the floor to deem it totally and completely ruined, anyway.

\-- 

" _ **Bring beer** ,_" and Jack's there again, surveying the recent progress. 

Walking in the door this time's a much more pleasant experience. For one, Brock had already slipped across the floor on socked-feet and gotten a couple of his windows open before Jack had arrived, getting a nice autumn cross-breeze going through the corner unit, wiping out some of the acidic, harsh smell of stain and sealant. It doesn't hurt that Brock's much more relaxed this time, shoulders less squared and no longer leaking rage into the air like a feral cat. 

Jack passes him a beer anyway, toeing off his shoes at the door to shuffle over on a rough patch of floor to the kitchen to join Brock. He hoists himself up on a counter next to his superior officer, to survey Rumlow's territory with him. "What's this one?"

" _Gunstock_ ," And Jack'd bet his whole 401K that Brock'd chosen the stain basted on the name alone, put partially on the hints of crimson seeping through the cracks between planks like blood. Even half finished, the floor looks better than the first go-around. 

The cherry red of the new stain is much more understated than the  _Red Sedona_  had been, and it's just an added bonus that Brock's new bachelor pad doesn't also look like a secret murder lair. No, it surprisingly looks much more open and light than when he'd gotten it -- speaking wonders as to what a fresh coat of paint, the removal of old carpeting, and a nice view could do. 

The subtle red of the partially finished floor will contrast well with the faint blue of the usual DC sky, partly cloudy and overcast about seventy-five percent of the time. Jack probably would've gone with something a bit lighter and more neutral, like oak, but that's too dull for Brock. 

The setting sun, now illuminating the low DC skyline with wisps of pastel clouds, glints off the shine of Brock's floors perfectly, giving his condo just the right evening light. It's almost romantic -- or it would be, if it was anyone else's living space. But even for Rumlow, it looks nice. It's an enjoyable night, sitting in near-silence in the half-finished condo. Brock occasionally points to different areas and supplies his ideas for improvement. Some, Jack shoots down, because he's got a better idea about these kinds of things than Brock. But mostly? Jack just hums, nodding, and takes another sip of the strong IPA in his hand.

\--

" _ **Bring beer** ,_" again and again and again. 

Each time there's a problem at Brock's with the contractors, the HOA, with anything, Rollins gets a buzz. A plea for company.  

Jack's getting kind of used to having Brock's texts waiting for him after his afternoon trip to the gym. Rumlow doesn't mind it when Rollins shows up, sweaty and warm, as long as he's got beer in hand. He makes it a point to buy a different IPA each time, trying all of the local brews that the area has to offer. He cheats a little, grabs a pack of Dogfish Head  _Punkin Ale_ , and shows up at Brock's.

"Delaware's pushing it." Brock greets, after eyeing the beer. "And the leaves haven't even started changing yet. Quit trying to shove fall down my throat."

And Jack just laughs, because when Brock starts posturing like a little Pomeranian, getting his hackles up at nothing, it means he's in a good mood, that everything is right with the world. "If I can drive there in under two hours, it's local. Besides, the leaves have started changing up by the range in Maryland, so." It's a useless argument, going in absolutely no direction at all, but it's how they do. It's nice to have Brock's mind off his house, anyway.

They crack open a couple and Jack paces around Brock's condo after kicking his shoes off at the door. His stocking feet slide easily and smoothly over the newly refinished wood: an overwhelmingly pleasant feeling, if he's honest about it. He doesn't comment on that, but does say, " _Nice,"_  at the look of it all. The floor isn't an overwhelming red, and it looks good with the incredibly light grey that Brock chose for the walls. The dark leather couch in the corner of the living area looks at home and cozy, opposed to stark and too-masculine like Jack had assumed it would. There's even a couple paintings on the wall, which he wouldn't've expected. 

The whole thing is surprising -- in a nice way, in a way that leaves Jack feeling settled and warm, at home in this space he pegged for uncomfortable at the start. It's strange, but not unwelcome. Unexpected.

"Look at that view." He steps out onto the balcony at the corner of Brock's condo, lets the autumn breeze knock him right in the face. Cold and warm and humid, all at the same time. Seasons are strange here, in the middle of a built-over swamp, but Jack's gotten used to it after all the time he's spent in DC. First, SHIELD had them shipping in and out, in and out, and it'd been a volatile and unpleasant environment to try to adjust to every time they came back from months on another base. But once they'd worked their way up in the ranks? They'd settled in at headquarters. Gotten their own offices and everything. After that, it hadn't been too hard to adjust to the fluctuating, almost always-humid and ever-shifting seasons. 

Speaking of, "Nice view of HQ from here." 

Jack can see it, the Triskelion, sticking up high and mighty from what looks like the middle of the Potomac River, shadowed by the obelisk of the Monument, dwarfing the rest of the low DC skyline. 

"Yeah. It's real nice at night, actually." And so Jack sticks around. They sit on the hardwood in front of the open doors to the balcony with the breeze rolling through the screen, until they eventually lie down, sprawled out on smooth new floors. And Brock's right; it is nice at night. All of DC lights up across the river, Maryland too, and the Triskelion is there, ever-present and golden, right in the middle of all of it. Jack knows that not too long ago it wasn't there, and Roosevelt Island, where it's perched, used to be a national memorial for just anyone to explore. Now, it feels like the building has been there forever, watching and waiting, just like Hydra. 

Jack doesn't care much about architecture, but he likes the building, likes how it looks up close and from miles away on the floor of Brock's new condo. He rolls onto his back, stares at the newly-painted perfect white of the ceiling and huffs out a laugh, "How'd this even happen?" It's vague, so vague, and even Jack's not sure what he's referring to.

Doesn't seem to matter to Brock, who laughs along with him, pushing himself up on his elbows. He looks over at Jack, and then outside again, at the lights twinkling in the humid air. "I've no fuckingidea. None."

It's quiet for a while, just the sound of the city and the cicadas and the wind.

\--

" ** _I'm bringing beer,_** " he types -- pauses, frowns -- and then finally sends. After a minute, he gets a singular emoji as a response: a target with a dart in the bullseye, and takes it as a win. 

"Maryland," Brock says, as he opens the door and spies the six-pack in Jack's hand. "Flying Dog's good, though, so you get a pass." It wasn't ever anything Brock even specified, but he caught onto the local-brew game fast. Never stopped giving Jack shit about it, just because he's an asshole. Maryland's fucking local; Jack can see it from Brock's balcony.

Jack lets Rumlow take the beer from him, lets Brock usher him inside with just a look. "There was one called  _Raging Bitch,_  should've gotten that one in honor of you."

Instead, he'd gotten  _Doggie Style_. When Brock sees it, he barks out a laugh.

\-- 

"Fuck beer," Brock says, slamming his way into the condo, Jack in tow. "Fuck it, we're having coffee and booze."

"Classy," Jack says, but toes his shoes off at the door like usual, and follows Brock to the kitchen. He's not doing anything, but it still feels like he's making sure Brock doesn't lose pieces of himself along the way.

They end up with some ridiculous espresso blend called  _Tin Lizzie_ , but it's good. It's dark and it's caffeinated, and it goes well with a generous splash of whiskey and some cream. In keeping with the theme, they put Thin Lizzy on in the background and try not to think about the blown mission they just got back from. 

The DC skyline is a haze today, lost in a sea of mist. The whole sky is bright and dreary, and it feels like the whole city stays awake with them tonight.

\--

There is no beer. There's no text. There's no failed mission. It's just a dreary and cold November day and Jack's bored. He's been circling Brock's condo block for what feels like an hour because he has no excuse. 

He's never really shown up empty handed before.

Doesn't seem to matter though, because once he's gotten all his bullshit out and gets inside the condo, Brock puts his hands to use. " _Hold this._ "

He lets Brock maneuver him around until they're in the bathroom, lets Brock press his hands flat against the large marble tiles. "Why are you re-tiling your bathroom?" The tiles are cold on his palms, but they look nice. Not too snazzy, but nice enough. "Yourself?"

"Don't be an idiot." And sure, yeah. Maybe that's a dumb question, after the fiasco with the installation of the new dishwasher in the kitchen. Brock's had it with household disasters -- Jack knows that. He knows Brock now, knows him like he knows the back of his own hand. 

When they're done, they're both covered in caulk and grout, but they meander to the kitchen instead showering in turns, and talk in low voices while coffee brews. It's cold outside, but somehow warmer in Brock's apartment even with the windows open and the cross-breeze kicking the scent of an early winter into the space. It's easy, surprisingly so, for Jack to set his mug of coffee down on the counter with a quiet clink and crowd Brock up against the counter. To kiss him on chapped lips, along the stubble of his jaw, and down his throat. 

It's simple to keep Brock there, to kiss him like he's drowning, to fist dusty fingers in his commander's hair just to hear the little sounds he makes. It's not necessarily that Jack expected Brock to push him away or that he expected a punch to the face -- but he didn't expect Brock to react so positively, to lean into Jack and to kiss him back ferociously. 

Rumlow's posture shifts to nothing short of inviting, and he uses his strength to pull Rollins closer. They lick into each other's mouths, each snaking a hand into the warm space between their two bodies with ease. With short panted breaths and cut-off moans, they bring each other off, Jack eating up each and every sound he pulls out of Brock. Keeping it all for himself.

The shower afterward is warm and close, and much less awkward than it has any right to be with how quiet they are. They don't discuss the way Jack can still taste Brock on his tongue, or the way his lips hurt a little like he has the beginnings of beard-burn. They don't talk about the way Brock runs a finger over the red around Jack's mouth and smiles, dragging his nail along the irritated skin for a second before grabbing them both towels.

Jack borrows sweats and a beat-up shirt, and even if the clothes are both a little short, they're soft and they smell like Rumlow. 

They both end up spending the night on the couch, too tired to move elsewhere, falling asleep with the misty light of DC on their eyelids. In the morning it's cold and bright, the windows still open, and Jack curls around Brock, half asleep. The taste of Rumlow still lingers on his lips, clouding his dreams with bits and pieces of his captain.

\--

Jack spreads the newspapers out on Brock's kitchen table and frowns, getting newsprint all over his hands with the way he's thumbing over them. 

"Are you honestly using the classifieds to try to find a place?" Brock's to his left, leaning up against Jack's side like he owns every space he walks into, like he can just lean against Rollins with no ramification. Actions have  _consequences,_  Rumlow, Rollins is always trying to tell him. So, Jack reminds him of that, quick and easy, by catching him in a kiss, strong hand cupping Brock's stubbled jaw tight. When Jack lets up, Brock keeps talking, because of course he does. "Use the internet, like everyone else."

Jack folds the papers and puts them in the recycling bin, giving up for the day. His lease is up in a month. Sure, he could buy like Brock, but honestly? He doesn't want to go through the shit-show that Brock had to wade through with all of the fixing-up of his fixer-upper.

"I know a real good place." Casually, Brock sips at his mug of coffee (some sugar, little bit of cream), while Jack pours some of his own.

"Yeah?"  
And Brock takes a breath and smiles, slow and easy, "Yeah. Great views. Newly re-modeled.  _Really_  nice hardwood floors."

**Author's Note:**

> long story short, i am having my own home repair problems. this began as a drabble to get out some of my frustrations, but then it sort of morphed along the way into a little love-song about washington dc. and became a pile of fluff. 
> 
> i'd say i'm not sure how this happened, but it's really not a surprise. to anyone.
> 
> title idea from [linguamortua](http://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua), who also listened to me complain for way too long about home repairs. thank you.
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com).


End file.
